


The Archangel Billiam

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Inappropriate Shenanigans On Top Of A Piano, M/M, Snow Angels, Wine Drunk Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Wine, snow angels, and silliness.
Relationships: William Beckett/Brendon Urie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	The Archangel Billiam

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this over a decade ago and just moved it over from Livejournal in a fit of nostalgia. Considering that I wrote it when I was seventeen, I think it's held up relatively well?

“Involuntary snow angel!” squeals Brendon, running at William and giving him a good hard shove. Of course, Brendon’s drunk and like six inches shorter than William, so his “good hard shove” does no more than make William stumble a little, but it was a noble effort.   
  
William, on the other hand, is very tall and very good (well, better) at holding his alcohol, and Brendon goes face-first flying into a foot of snow. He rolls over lazily onto his back, laughing, blinking away the chunky flakes that keep falling into his eyes, shivering at the delicious cold of the snow against his skin. He stares up at the night sky, and the flakes seem to spiral down out of nowhere, and it’s hard to tell them from the stars.   
  
Wait, the stars definitely shouldn’t be moving. Maybe Brendon should’ve stopped after that last round.   
  
“You have to wave your arms like this,” giggles William, appearing in his line of vision and flapping his arms like a demented chicken.   
  
“To do what? Look like an idiot?”   
  
“No, dummy, to make a snow angel. Duh,” William says, still flapping away. Brendon grabs him around the ankles, and William topples like a tree into the snow.   
  
“Cheater,” William huffs, and he pushes a fistful of snow down Brendon’s collar.   
  
“I can’t believe you just called me a dummy,” Brendon laughs, and maybe that’s one of those things that wouldn’t be funny if he wasn’t drunk, but God is it funny right now. He lets his head roll to the side, and there’s William, still flapping his arms, making the tallest, skinniest snow angel known to man.   
  
“You look like an angel anyway, Bilvy,” he giggles.  
  
And it’s true, because his cheeks are flushed pink, and his teeth kind of gleam when he laughs like that, and there’s a veil of sparkling flakes adorning his hair.  
  
“That’s me, the Archangel Billiam,” William smirks.   
  
“Yeah, you’re total saint material,” snorts Brendon.   
  
“I will have you know that I am a fine, upstanding, law-abiding, virtuous…” he loses it at that, and they both start cackling again, rolling around like five-year-olds on Brendon’s front lawn. Cause seriously, William? Not so much with the virtue.   
  
“I’m cold. More wine?” Brendon says breathlessly, sticking out his tongue to catch snowflakes.   
  
“Yum. More wine,” William chirps, scrambling to his feet. “I love wine. I love snow. I love airport closings.”   
  
Brendon joins in, and they’re still listing things they love as they shake snow out of their boots and start peeling off layers of clothing.   
  
“I love empty notebooks.” That’s William, of course.   
  
“I love having a front lawn.”   
  
“I love your new house, you rich little bastard.”   
  
“I love snow angels.”   
  
“I love showering until the hot water’s gone.”   
  
“I love eyeliner.”   
  
“I love going commando.”   
  
“…Seriously?”   
  
“Duh. You think there’s room for underwear under these pants?”   
  
“Huh. Never really thought about it.”  
  
While Brendon contemplates William’s pants, William takes a running leap and lands on the couch.   
  
“Bring me wine, slave girl,” William commands airily, waving one spidery hand.   
  
“Bitch, please.”   
  
“It’s your house, I’m the guest. Be polite. God.” William makes grabby hands and snuggles deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket over himself.   
  
Brendon rolls his eyes and gets the wine, not bothering with glasses.   
  
The bottle gets emptied over the course of an hour, while William lazily contemplates the commercialization of Christmas and Brendon lazily contemplates William. He kind of wants to kiss William, which is funny, because they’ve been friends for years now and Brendon’s never seen him as more than a good drinking buddy. Plus he’s still clinging to his lingering shreds of heterosexuality, even after those incidents with Pete and Ryan. And that thing with Gabe. But that doesn’t count, everyone’s had a thing with Gabe. On top of that, William looks even more like a girl than Ryan, so he figures it’s okay.   
  
Besides, the air in here is just intoxicating. He can chalk it up to that. Everything’s glowing, the lights from the tree twinkling and fuzzing into the light from the fire, and Brendon’s bone-meltingly warm, especially where his side is pressed against William’s, and he’s too comfortable to move except to pass the wine back and forth. His limbs seem to have gone all soft and gooey. He snuggles closer, resting his head on William’s shoulder. The snow’s still falling outside the ceiling-high windows, pale blue in the moonlight, but in here, everything is liquid gold, hazy and dreamlike.  
  
“I feel bad for all the reject trees. It’s so shallow, like a tree beauty contest. Ever see that Friends episode where Phoebe wanted to save all the unwanted Christmas trees?” William grabs the bottle and downs the last couple sips.   
  
“Nope.” Brendon-speak for, _You have a very nice mouth._  
  
“Oh. It was good.”   
  
“Mmkay.” _We should kiss now._  
  
“I like the lights though. The lights are pretty. They’re all twinkly, see?” William points out.   
  
_And they make pretty little reflections in your eyes._  
  
Oh hey. That was definitely words instead of thoughts. That wasn’t supposed to be words.   
  
“Really?” William grins.   
  
“Mmmph.” Brendon doesn’t trust his mouth any more.   
  
“Lemme see yours,” William says suddenly, grabbing Brendon’s face in both of his hands and staring intently into his eyes. “Nope, don’t see anything,” he pouts.   
  
“That’s because you’re between me and the lights, dummy,” Brendon giggles. William’s face is a little blurry, and his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is all shiny, and he definitely looks like an angel now, but just as Brendon starts leaning forward for a kiss, William releases him.   
  
“Oh. Well, you have nice eyes, anyway. Hang on, I have to pee.” And William pulls himself up from the couch and sashays to the bathroom, because it’s William and he never just walks, he has to constantly remind humanity how perfect his body is.   
  
Brendon feels like sobering up would be a good idea. At least a little. At least enough that he can sort out what should come out of his mouth or not.   
  
He grabs a glass of water, trying to shake off some of the heaviness in his head, and when he gets back, William’s sitting at the piano, picking out Chopsticks.   
  
“Play something,” says William softly, sliding over to make room.  
  
Brendon launches into a song, and his head is suddenly clear as his fingers start flying, caressing, coaxing out the melody, tender and effortless, stroking across the keys like liquid. He leans into the piano, closes his eyes, lets the room fall away.   
  
“That was gorgeous,” whispers William, when the final notes have faded.   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
“Who’s it by?”   
  
“Me,” Brendon replies, and his blush isn’t all from the wine now.   
  
“Gorgeous,” says William, his voice doing this low husky thing. Brendon’s pretty sure he’s not talking about the music any more.   
  
There’s the lightest of brushes on the back of his hand. One of William’s fingertips is tracing patterns on his skin, tickling across the delicate veins, moving up across his knuckle to his middle finger and back down again, swirling around his wrist bone, hypnotizingly soft and slow.  
  
Brendon feels like the room is whirling around them, but it doesn’t really matter because all he can see are William’s huge caramel eyes.   
  
Brendon just can’t help himself.   
  
Their mouths melt into each other, soft, natural. William kisses the way he writes, elegant and graceful, precise but so far from boring. He sweeps his hand up from Brendon’s wrist to cup his jaw, and Brendon tilts his head back and lets William plant barely-there kisses across his lower lip. He feels like he’s in a trance, his head still too heavy for his neck.   
  
But he can’t get close enough to William in this position, has to twist awkwardly to get in prime kissing position, and that’s annoying. So he swings one leg over William’s lap and straddles him, and judging by the little hiss of air that escapes William’s lips, that’s a good move.   
  
William’s hands are on his lower back, pulling him closer, and Brendon pushes tight against him, gliding his tongue along William’s lower lip, massaging circles into the nape of his neck. William presses his lips down Brendon’s neck, his tongue darting out ever so slightly, pushing the fabric of his shirt aside to kiss along his shoulder, and Brendon feels little shivers crawl up his spine at the sensation. But it’s William’s teeth that are his undoing, nipping sharply into the tingling skin below his ear, and Brendon twists his hips in response, grinds down into William helplessly, and William gasps into his neck.   
  
He pulls away and looks at Brendon, just looks, his eyes hungry and challenging and huge as ever.   
  
Their lips crash together again, bodies following suit, William’s hands pulling Brendon impossibly close, long fingers digging into Brendon’s back and then gliding down to the curve of his ass, and when Brendon grinds down into William’s hips again he finds out that he’s not the only one who’s hard, and a thrill goes through his stomach.   
  
Without warning, William stands up, Brendon wrapped around his waist. He half-steps forward so Brendon’s sitting on the piano keys, which let out a discordant jumble of notes as if to let him know that this is _not_ what they were meant for. Much as he loves his piano, Brendon has other things on his mind.   
  
Namely, his erection.   
  
His legs are still wrapped around William’s waist, desperately trying to pull him closer, to get more friction, and William obligingly pulls away for a second to palm at him through his jeans.   
  
“Mnurgh,” chokes Brendon, because more of that would be nice, yes please.   
  
“Hmm? What was that?” says William wickedly, teasing even though his own breathing isn’t so even.   
  
Brendon manages to open his eyes enough to glare.   
  
“Okay, okay, but only since you’re being so nice and letting me stay here tonight.” William has the button of Brendon’s jeans open in one twist, and then it’s just a matter of Brendon squirming awkwardly while William pulls and the piano keys complain, and suddenly he’s sitting half-naked on his new grand piano with William Beckett kneeling in front of him.   
  
And, _oh_. _Wow_. Because that mouth? Turns out it’s good for other things than singing and kissing. Seriously, seriously good.   
  
Brendon moans helplessly as William takes him in, his hands grasping the edge of the piano, drawing another messy chord from the keys, and _shit_. William has this devilish look in his eyes, like he’s enjoying watching Brendon squirm like a hormonal teenager, and even when Brendon’s hips buck up of their own accord William doesn’t seem to notice or care.   
  
William traces his tongue up the underside, swirls it around the head, flicks along the slit, and Brendon’s embarrassingly close already, whining in the back of his throat.   
  
“Jesus, Brendon, you look so fucking hot right now,” William whispers, eyes flashing darkly, and his breath is hot and tantalizing on Brendon’s dick, and Brendon has to bite his lip to keep some semblance of control. “You know how good you taste?” William asks, _taunts_ , and Brendon moans. He could probably get off on that voice alone, that crooning cocky smirking voice.   
  
William sucks him into his mouth again, and then he hums and Brendon gasps, throws his head back and arches up, because, again, _shit_ , fucking hell, William’s mouth is just so hot and wet and talented and Brendon needs _more_. William’s bobbing his head faster and Brendon’s already seeing stars and panting, and it’s the final straw when William drags his fingernails down Brendon’s thigh. He lets a ragged moan rip through his throat as he comes, shuddering, pouring into William’s throat.   
  
His first thought when he comes down is _wow_. 

  
The second is, _shit, hope the piano’s okay._


End file.
